


Inner

by proser



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gender Identity, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Serial Killers, Team Sassy Science (Hannibal)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-03-16 14:54:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13638513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proser/pseuds/proser
Summary: Will has a secret. Likely multiple secrets. Hannibal decides that it's his business to learn all of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me for starting yet another project? It'll be good, I promise ;)

Unsurprisingly, Warpid, Ohio has very little to offer as far as accommodations go.

Hannibal originally hoped otherwise, of course. He spent his time during the flight searching high and low on the Internet for a decent place to stay. An Airbnb, perhaps, or even a casino hotel. Those are almost always safer than the pathetic roadside  _ flea-for-alls _ that the FBI seems so fond of. 

Unfortunately, however, Warpid is a quintessential Midwestern small town, and is the (absurdly) proud owner of exactly  _ two  _ motels: the Starsun and the Knight's Crest. Both haven't been renovated in decades and still have yellowing signs boasting color television.

The Starsun, according all three of its reviews on Yelp, is rarely ever clean; one reviewer found clumps of human hair in the drain and under the pillow (though Hannibal thinks that might be part of another problem altogether). Perhaps the FBI took note of said reviews, or perhaps they simply chose the Knight's Crest because its nightly rate is a staggering four dollars cheaper than its sole competitor.

Either way, Hannibal finds himself stranded in one of America's most dismal states in the company of over a dozen idiotic federal agents, stuck without a decent place to stay and only enough (decent) food to last him three days. If the investigation lasts any longer than that, he will have to  _ improvise.  _ He's certain there's at least one nearby farm with worthy produce, and certainly an abundance of meat. 

On top of that, the case doesn't even appear that interesting, but of course, Jack Crawford will be the judge of _ that.  _ Frankly, the man wouldn't know a decent tableau even if it were left on his doorstep.

He hasn't yet, anyway, despite Hannibal's best efforts.

The only benefit of the case is that Will Graham has come along, offering his very unique brand of insight and his delightful company (though, Hannibal is apparently alone in appreciating the latter). The witty profiler is the first person to have truly captured Hannibal's interest in a long time, and he looks forward to seeing how their little game plays out.

For now, though, his grand scheme will have to be put aside. Jack's (boring) case takes priority.

Their first stop is the scene of the crime, which Hannibal was only made aware of six hours before. He has spent the intervening time in transit, and would appreciate stopping to unpack and perhaps take a shower. Of course, he thinks he would be better off avoiding their temporary place of residence for as long as possible.

The body is the fifth of its kind, posited in the empty lot behind a liquor store. The victim is in his early thirties, male, and his skull has been smashed in. His ankles are tied, but other than that and the cause of death, he appears to have been left relatively unharmed.

Overall, very poor presentation. The motive, hopefully, will prove to be more interesting. Hannibal can depend on Will Graham to confirm or deny that.

Will observes the scene from a distance, a pillar of still light in the midst of the scene's chaos. FBI agents scramble around him, picking at evidence and taking photos, but he is motionless. 

His eyes shut, and Hannibal takes a moment to appreciate his expression. Lips parted, jaw slack, eyes twitching beneath the lids. Like a dream—or as though he's caught in one.

Either way, a delight to behold. Hannibal hopes to one day see what he really does, to understand what moves behind his quiet shield.

Jack Crawford descends upon the scene like an angry god from the thunderheads, clutching a crumpled paper coffee cup.

"Clear out, everyone!" he barks. "Let Graham do his thing." He turns to a cluster of agents taking notes and nods at them sharply. "Sheppard, Lelan, I've got people I need statements from. Get on it."

Agents Sheppard and Lelan look caught in the headlights, but they both nod sharply and hurry off. Jack beckons the rest of the team away from the scene.

Eyes trained on Will, Hannibal makes sure he is the last to leave. Will walks towards the body with his eyes shut, as if sleepwalking (a sight Hannibal feels privileged to have observed before). 

Turning away, he takes a deep breath and goes to gather details from whatever agents are left available. He can't spend the entire excursion enjoying himself, after all; there's mundane work to be done.

Agents Price and Zeller, as usual, do not seem immediately occupied. They stand shoulder to shoulder, bickering about some (likely inane) detail like a pair of coupled parrots.

"Zeller, Agent Price," Hannibal says, calling them to attention.

They both look up immediately: Price with delight, Zeller with dismay.

"Doctor Lecter," Zeller says, his face caught in a deep frown. "What's up?"

Hannibal takes the smallest of breaths in to center himself. "I've yet to receive the full details of the case," he answers. "I was seeking enlightenment."

Price snorts. "Aren't we all, Doctor," he mutters. He looks briefly up at the sky and sighs wistfully. "Unfortunately, the Lord won't be joining us here."

"The disquieting signs lining the highway would disagree," Hannibal counters. The Midwest has proven to be as overwhelmingly Protestant as rumored.

"Well." Zeller smiles and crosses his arms, clearly amused. "Glad you caught the view, Doctor."

Price turns to him, eyebrows raised. "You're from around here, right?" he asks.

Zeller sighs. "Columbus," he admits, "but close enough. And small towns like this are always weird. They don't exactly give me the warm fuzzies."

Hannibal tilts his head. The small shift is enough to redirect their attention to him. Price clears his throat.

"We've reason to believe that whoever left this behind killed another four. All similar victim profiles—"

"Not that you get much else around here," Zeller cuts in.

"—left in similar sorts. One in Illinois, two in Kentucky, and another just across the border in West Virginia. Different kinds of rope on the ankles, but nothing you wouldn't be able to find at the local hardware store. Any DNA evidence left behind doesn't have any system matches."

"Then our killer's foreign," Hannibal offers. "Or he doesn't have a record."

"That's the thing," Zeller says.  _ "He  _ might not be a  _ he.  _ What we  _ have  _ gotten from the DNA samples is a whole lot of X chromosomes.” He grimaces. “Or, two, but you know what I mean."

"Female serial killers are not unprecedented," Hannibal agrees. He has encountered a decent amount of them in his practice.

"Frankly, I'm surprised there aren't  _ more  _ of them," Price mutters. "The shit ladies have to put up with! Imagine the rage they've collectively gathered, constantly dealing with douchebags like Brian here—"

"Hey! I'm not that bad!"

Price tilts his head and purses his lips. "You're a straight white boy from  _ Ohio,  _ Brian. I guarantee you don't treat women the way they'd like you to."

"And you do?" Zeller demands.

Hannibal lets out a tiny scoff. He and Price share a knowing look.

"Don't need to," Price answers.

Zeller frowns, looks like he's about to question something, and then narrows his eyes. He nods slowly, and then lets out a scoff of his own and shakes his head.

"Dammit," he says. "Should've pieced that one together sooner."

"Oh, really?" Price returns, his face splitting into a grin. "Bev owes me twenty bucks. She was sure you already knew."

Hannibal removes himself from the conversation quickly, backing away to meditate on this new information. Not regarding Price's sexuality, of course—that was obvious from the beginning. 

Their killer's gender, though, adds some intrigue to the case. Perhaps this won't as bland as he anticipated.

He will have to acquire Will's insight later.

* * *

 

The one good thing about Hannibal's boarding situation is that his room is connected to Will's. A single locked door is all that separates the two of them, and that is somehow comforting.

Nearly half of the Knight's Inn has been filled with FBI employees, but all is quiet for the dinner hour. All of them are either working on the case, or out at the single local bar. 

Not Hannibal, however. He has brought enough food for two people, and Will has yet to turn him down for a meal. All it takes is a knock on their adjoining door, and Will is there, offering a confused smile beneath tired eyes.

His shield is down in this moment, as it often is between them, and yet Hannibal finds he cannot determine what lies within Will Graham.

"Need something?" he asks, his arms crossed over his chest. He is stripped of his outer layers, the winter coat and vest abandoned in favor of the blue Henley he wears so often. 

Hannibal has grown strangely fond of it. He smiles in return.

"Your company," he replies, stepping to the side to allow Will's entrance. "Would you join me for dinner?"

Will's eyebrows shoot up as he peers into the room. "You managed to get a kitchen in this dump?"

"Unfortunately, no," Hannibal answers, gesturing to the bare room. "But I have brought leftovers from my kitchen with me, if you don't mind."

"'Course I don't," Will laughs. "Even soggy and microwaved, your food is better than anything else I could get my hands on."

Hannibal frowns, slightly offended. "There will be no microwaving."

Grinning, Will crosses into the room, noting the two lidded containers on the table. "Right," he says. "You've got that fancy Tupperware. I should have remembered the last time we ate in a motel room together." He sits down in the chair closest to the wall, rolling his shoulders.

"It isn't Tupperware," Hannibal says. He stands opposite of Will and leans over the wobbly table to remove the lid from his dish. "I buy from a small Japanese business that makes these by hand. The quality is much better."

Will huffs, nodding. "I'm not surprised," he says, cutting off when he scents the food. 

The pleasure is tangible in his expression alone, and then he lets out an appreciative  _ mmm.  _ Hannibal, in turn, is pleased.

"And what's this?" Will asks. "Stew?"

"A simple  _ bouef bourguignon,"  _ Hannibal says. "It travels well."

"It's never simple with you, though," Will mutters, and digs the provided spoon into the stew. He takes a large mouthful of the beef and lets out a happy sigh after swallowing. "Always something weird. What's the catch?"

The  _ catch  _ was a flighty accountant who was rude enough to take a piece of food from Hannibal's plate at an acquaintance's wedding. Once the trap was set, the young man went wriggling to his death.

"None," Hannibal answers smoothly, taking his seat. "A good butcher, of course, and otherwise close attention to quality."

Will shrugs. "Whatever it is," he says, "it's good." He takes another bite to prove his point, a soft pearled onion popping between his teeth.

Hannibal removes the lid on his own dish and takes a whiff. The garlic is somewhat overpowering after being left to stew in the container for over six hours, but it's palatable. He leaves it to cool slightly while he pops the cork on the bottle of wine he's brought, and pours them both a glass. There won't be time to let it aerate, but so many other luxuries have already been abandoned.

Besides, the food isn't the most appealing thing at the table. He doesn't mind having more reason to pay attention to Will Graham.

"A shame that this is the setting we've been provided," he sighs, "but duty calls, as they say. What have you made of the case so far?"

"Our killer is angry," Will says, without much emotion either way. "He strung up the victim before smashing his skull in, but it doesn't look like it's personal."

Hannibal raises his eyebrows as he swirls his glass of wine. "He?" he inquires.

Will licks his lips and nods, frowning at his plate. His eyes flash up towards Hannibal's for a second before he focuses on the table. "Yeah," he says. "He. Why?"

"DNA evidence from the preceding crime scenes suggested our killer was female. Two X-chromosomes."

Will shakes his head and haphazardly stabs at the food. "No," he says. "Perp's definitely a man. Are they sure the DNA wasn't from another source?"

"Apparently, the same was found at three of the scenes. It hasn't been matched with anyone in the system, of course."

Swallowing, Will sets down his utensil. "Well," he says, his brow knitting together. "That's upsetting."

Hannibal inclines his head, curious. "You're not the kind of person to be upset when corrected, Will."

"You haven't corrected me," Will tells him. "I'm right. Our killer's a man."

"While I don't doubt your profiling abilities for a second," Hannibal counters, "I fail to see how that's possible. Three different crime scenes, Will. It can't be a coincidence."

"It's not," he agrees, shaking his head. "But DNA evidence is always tricky. You can never know for sure."

"Then you think it's a mistake?"

"Could be," he says. His gaze drifts to the wall behind Hannibal. He bites his lip, the skin around his teeth going white from the pressure. When he releases it, a bite mark surges red and then fades back to normal. "Or it's half-correct. Not everyone with two X-chromosomes is a woman, you know."

Hannibal leans forward, intrigued. "You think the perpetrator is transgendered, then?"

"It's not impossible," Will points out. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks out the window, where the parking lot and the empty highway beside it are lit by orange light. "Might make a lot of sense, actually. Being queer out in the boonies like this can’t be easy. Lots of prejudice." He lets out a sigh; his entire body heaves with the exhale. "It would explain what I f—what I  _ experienced  _ back there. The rage, the fear.”

Hannibal doesn't reply, choosing instead to observe Will. He seems particularly affected. Hannibal watches closely as Will's fingers tighten around his own arm, clearly anxious about something.

Of course, that only makes Hannibal want to press him further, but he knows by now that interrogation will only make things take longer. Will requires patience.

"Something to sleep on, I suppose," he says, clearing the air with a cheery smile. "We should finish the food before it grows cold, don't you think?"

Will exhales and looks at him again, meeting his eye for a few seconds. He seems relieved. "I do think," he agrees, and picks up his spoon again. He punctuates the next bite with a sip of wine, his eyes widening as he does so. "As always," he says, "I'm impressed by the wine."

"That's high praise, coming from you."

The lines around Will's eyes crinkle when he smiles next, tension forgotten. Hannibal will be grateful for his positive mood for now, but he will discover the source of Will's discomfort sooner or later.

He longs to understand the inner workings of Will Graham.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who finally updated!   
>  ~this guy~

"You mean you didn't bring enough to share?" 

Beverly Katz jostles Hannibal's shoulder with a playful shove. The invasion of space is forgivable, partially because she is too close to home to go missing, and partially because he enjoys her company. Like Price, she is clever, and not entirely insufferable (unlike Zeller).

"Contrary to popular belief," he says coyly, "I am not an unlimited food source."

Katz snickers at that. "Don't tell me Jack's been overstaying his welcome, now." Surely, she’s heard of Crawford’s frequent visitations.

"I would never say such a thing," Hannibal replies, though the smile he gives her is nothing short of conspiratorial.

They have returned to Quantico, blessedly less than forty-eight hours after their departure. Hannibal is beyond grateful that his stay in Warpid was brief, if only for the promise of returning to his kitchen in the evening.

Of course, it also means that Will will be much farther away from him at any given moment, but he sets that thought aside. For now, Will is in the same room with him, sharing the reek of preserved corpses and stale underground air.

“Well.” Katz casts one last look at Hannibal’s thermal bag, left on top of an empty body tray. “If there’s any extra, let me know. I haven’t tried your cooking, and I’ve heard it’s to die for.” She glances pointedly at Will, who is oblivious to their conversation.

He is perched on the stool that, from what Hannibal can gather, is his usual spot. Surrounded on either side by desks and bulky lab equipment, it must provide a sense of safety amidst the stress that working with the FBI inevitably brings him. His elbows dig into his thighs as he rests his chin in his hands, deep in thought.

The back door swings open, and Zeller and Price reemerge. 

“Same gal,” Zeller announces, voice flat. “Fingerprints match the other four scenes, and the hair on the vic’s shirt looks right, too.”

“Still no system match for the DNA, though,” Price adds. He purses his lips. “Though, she didn’t leave anything for us at the scene, this time.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Katz says. “Guess that means we’ll have to keep an eye out for her next hit.” 

Hannibal turns to look at Will, who remains deep in thought at the back of the room. As far as Hannibal knows, he hasn’t told anyone else his theory about the perpetrator’s gender. 

“Will?” he prompts. “What are your thoughts?”

Will looks over at them and blinks before sitting up straight. “These don’t seem premeditated to me,” he answers. “Geographically, they’re too far apart. And they’re happening too often.”

Hannibal notes the avoidance of pronouns with a small smile. 

Katz lets out a small hum and taps her finger against her jaw. “She could be on tour,” she points out. 

“A Murderous Mystery Tour?” Zeller suggests.

Hannibal has to practice a great amount of restraint to not counter the bad pun. Zeller’s humor, as expected, remains unsatisfactory. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, grateful that the rest of the room is equally unresponsive. 

“Come on.” Zeller clears his throat and turns a pouting expression on Price. “No points for the Beatles reference?”

Price offers him a sad smile and pats his shoulder. “Classic, but overdone. Stick with the past two decades.”

“The murder’s just a sideshow,” Will interjects, rising from his chair. He begins pacing back and forth in small, controlled steps. 

Hannibal knows to wait for elaboration, to let him gather his thoughts, but the others aren’t so patient. 

“I don’t know,” Zeller mutters. “She could be hunting down her exes one by one, mercenary-style.”

“Now  _ that’s  _ a road trip I’d sign up for,” Price quips.

Katz raises one eyebrow at him. 

“What?” he snaps. “Like you haven’t thought about it!”

She just shrugs.

Will shakes his head, but doesn't cease his pacing. Hannibal speaks instead.

“There aren’t enough connections between the victims to suggest a common relationship,” he says. “Our killer may be migrant now, but I agree with Will. The selection is most likely random, if it’s a selection at all.”

Abruptly, Will stops. He swings his head to stare at Hannibal, owl-like in his surprise. Blinking, he says, “The locals. Did we question them? Are there any reports of a stranger in town?”

Katz sighs. “Tried that route,” she says. “No mysterious women in any of the towns around the time of death, besides a prostitute in the one in Kentucky—but her DNA is on record, so she’s clean.”

“What about men?” Will demands. 

Hannibal watches in amusement as the three forensics specialists stare at each other, dumbfounded.

“The perp’s got two X-chromosomes, Will,” Zeller says. “She’s got to be a woman.”

Will closes his eyes and bites down on his lip. The exasperation rolling off of him is tangible, and Hannibal wants to pin down the source; Will is usually so patient.

“Unless it’s a tag team?” Price offers. “Bonnie’s doing the dirtywork, Clyde covers her up.”

Will shakes his head and buries his hands deep in his pant pockets. His shoulders draw together, clearly uncomfortable.

“Everything about that scene screamed  _ male,”  _ he says. “I’m sure of it.”

Hannibal, of course, knows what he means, and yet Will says nothing. He seems reluctant, for once, to suggest his theory.

“You think a man planted false evidence at the scene to throw us off?” Katz asks. Her brow furrows in either disbelief or concentration.

Sighing, Will looks at Hannibal. Pleading, if Hannibal is feeling hopeful.

_ Be my paddle,  _ he seems to say. 

Hannibal, of course, is inclined to do just that. 

“There is the possibility that the killer is indeed a man, and he does, in fact, have two X-chromosomes,” he poses, using his most professional tone.

Will lets out a relieved sigh, ignored by the rest of the room.

Zeller’s face contorts with confusion. “Biologically,” he says, “that’s impossible.”

Hannibal tilts his head in a way that says,  _ I have twice as many PhDs as you do.  _ “It is certainly not impossible,” he replies. “Are you familiar with the term ‘transgender,’ Agent Zeller?”

“Oh.” Zeller all but rolls his eyes. “That hardly counts! Someone like that would stick right out in the small towns we’re dealing with.”

In response, both Katz and Price wince. Will’s lip, once again, catches tight between his teeth; Hannibal has fears of bruising.

“Brian,” Katz says, giving him a pained look. “Will’s the only person in this room less queer than you are, and even  _ he  _ seems to have a better grasp of the concept than you do.”

Hannibal would like to counter that Will most certainly scores higher than a one on the Kinsey scale, but refrains in favor of allowing Zeller to sputter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands. 

Price ignores him and turns to Will. “It would make sense, if that’s what you were suggesting,” he says. “But that still leaves us without a motive.”

Will’s posture has loosened considerably, and he nods in response. “We don’t need one, yet,” he says. “If I’m right, and our killer is a trans man, then the pool of potential suspects is much smaller.”

“Easier to pin down,” Katz agrees, “though it’s a shame, when you think about it. People always jump to villainizing queer people; the last thing we need is an honest-to-god villain.”

Idly, Hannibal questions the use of the word “villain.” As Will mentioned previously, queer people in conservative areas certainly have to put up with quite a lot. 

“Hold on.” Zeller butts his way back into the discussion by throwing his hands up. “I’m still caught up on—I mean, what do you mean  _ less queer?  _ I’m perfectly straight!”

“Oh,  _ honey,” _ Price murmurs.

Zeller stares back at him. “What? I am!”

Katz steps over and pats his shoulder. “We’ve all been there, sweetie.”

“What—” Zeller’s jaw falls into a slight gape. “Oh my god.” He shakes his head. “First Jimmy, now you? Who  _ else _ is gay?  _ Doctor Lecter?” _

The look he throws Hannibal is more panicked than accusational, but it still triggers a more-than-fleeting thought of featuring rocky mountain oysters at his next dinner party.

_ Too close to home,  _ he reminds himself, and decides that Zeller’s shock is penance enough.

“I am unable to donate my blood to the Red Cross,” he says simply.

Zeller groans and buries his face in his hands. “For Christ’s sake,” he mutters. “I thought I had a decent gaydar.”

Surprisingly, Will lets out a small scoff. “Anyone can spot a pride parade, Zeller.” 

It’s not an admission by any stretch, but Hannibal tells himself to remember the Kinsey scale. Will, he thinks,  _ cannot  _ be heterosexual. 

Before Zeller sinks further into panic, Katz shoves him onto a stool. “Jimmy,” she says to Price, “you handle this one. Give him the rundown before he says something offensive again.” Then, she turns to Will. “I’ll bring your theory to Jack, and we’ll see if it holds any ground.” Finally, she addresses Hannibal. “And  _ you  _ should go home. We’ve taken up way too much of your time.”

Hannibal looks over at Will, who is clearly more stretched thin than he is. “I think the both of us are in need of respite.”

Will nods. “It’s been a long day,” he agrees. “I can’t remember when I last ate.”

Hit with a surge of shock (though Will’s self-negligence shouldn’t be a surprise anymore), Hannibal reaches for Will’s arm. “I prepared a simple rice dish before we left Warpid,” he says. “I insist that you have some.”

He would have, anyway, were this information not volunteered, but no one needs to know that.

Katz raises her eyebrows. 

“Not an unlimited food source, huh?”

Hannibal refuses to eat in the Quantico canteen, and instead takes Will outside to the parking lot. The sunlight, while weak, should prove beneficial to their moods, and it will be much less assaulting to the senses for the both of them. 

He lays out the picnic blanket he keeps in the trunk of his Bentley for occasions such as these, and then lays it on top of the hood of his car.

Will watches him do this with notable surprise. Hannibal takes pleasure in the way he tilts his head and, in his perplexion, focuses on him more fully.

“I’ve had plenty of pick-up picnics,” he says, “but this is something else.”

Hannibal flashes him a smile, storing the idea of a young and smiling Will swinging his legs off the back of a tailgate away as something to muse over later. He thinks it would make a lovely sketch.

“Alas,” he returns, “I do not have the means to provide you with a truck bed. I hope this suffices.”

Will all but rolls his eyes and carefully sets himself on the relatively flat hood of the car. The blanket is textured enough that it doesn’t slip; Hannibal doubted that it would, but now he blanches at the thought of sending Will sliding onto the asphalt.

Unintentional or not, that would be  _ rude. _

He sits down next to Will, setting down the basket on his other side. He procures their two dishes (because of course he planned ahead for Will!) and passes Will’s to him. As Hannibal reaches for the silverware, Will pops the lid off of his bowl.

Hannibal hears an appreciative hum, and turns to see the look on Will’s face.

“You made beans and rice,” he says, taking the spoon he is offered (but not the fork). He digs it in immediately, grinning as he does so. “And the sausage is all you, of course.”

Hannibal chuckles. “I made it myself, yes,” he says. The sausage, of course, is actually all inconsiderate land developer, as well as some choice spices.

Will takes an eager bite. “How the hell am I supposed to feed myself anymore?” he mutters, his mouth half-full. It’s excusable, however, because it betrays his enthusiasm. “You’re spoiling me.”

Opening his own container, Hannibal decides not to point out that Will clearly  _ isn’t  _ feeding himself, and it is therefore necessary that Hannibal spoils him. 

Will looks up and meets his eye. “This is amazing, really,” he adds. He seems to glow with the admission, eyes sparkling with a hue to compete with the sky itself. 

With only mild alarm, Hannibal realizes that he would pay for the opportunity to spoil Will in every way possible. 

“Perhaps I should cook for you regularly, then,” Hannibal suggests, absolutely genuine. “Provide you with your own private meal service.” 

“Oh.” Will’s eyes widen, and he blinks, clearly shocked.

Hannibal quickly offers a grin. The comment can be interpreted as a joke, should Will prefer that.

The younger man quickly turns his attention back to the food. A reprieve from eye contact. 

“I wouldn’t want to put you out,” he mumbles.

“Nonsense,” Hannibal interjects, and leans so that their shoulders brush. A friendly gesture. “I have plenty of food to offer. At the very least, allow me to provide you dinner when you come for sessions.”

Will scoffs around another bite of sausage. “Are they really sessions at that point, Doctor?”

Hannibal has never considered Will his patient, though he believes that is the relationship Will is most comfortable with. Perhaps he ought to challenge that.

“I have considered us friends for some time now,” he confesses. “Perhaps we can move our conversations to a less professional setting.”

“Huh.” Will sits up straight to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t realize I had a friend.”

Hannibal all but sighs. He had really hoped his care for Will was more obvious.

“Consider it official, then,” he replies. “We’ve become friendly.”

Will laughs outright. 

“Guess we have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, life's been hellishly busy these past few months. My novel is taking up a lot of my writing time and energy, really sapping me dry. The first person truly is the worst perspective to write from. And I hate past tense. I frankly don't know why I ever thought it was a good idea. 
> 
> School's a bitch, too. I can't say I'll be posting more frequently any time soon, but thanks to all of you for reading and being so kind and supportive. I love all of you. So much.
> 
> An update for Sangfroid in the next few weeks is likely, and I'll try and muster up something for Kraft. Reading everyone's comments from the past month and a half have really warmed my heart, and I'll try and put more out for y'all <3
> 
> Thank you all, and I hope you're having a wonderful of a spring break/first week of non-winter hell/whatever the hell this strange timeslot is for you... I know I'm doing really well :)


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